When I worked at Cambridge, colleagues would ask where I lived and when I replied, “Stretham,” I would get either incredulous responses like, “you never commute that far, do you?” or horrified chastisement that I should move out of that war zone. Turns out they thought I lived in Streatham which, from what I could tell, is just another suburban London neighbourhood. Full of loons, mind, but nothing especially frightening.

I went for an American pilsner called This.Is.Lager. by Brewdog and it.was.nothing.special: a bit bitter with floral hops but you’ve seen it a thousand times before.

What you may not have seen a thousand times before (although she reminded me of my mom), was the jittery lady going around the room asking people about their meals. She had worked the room and stopped at the table just before mine to ask the middle-aged guy (who was waiting for his lunch date to return from the cloakroom) how he enjoyed his beans and toast. “I had the curry.” “Oh, so was your steak done how you like it?” “Curry, I said…curry.” “Okay, goodbye.”

Her lithium wracked frame headed toward me as I drained my glass and one of her table of carers (I hope) steered her to a seat. I think she was not the only kook in the house but you have to focus on the most imminent threat, sometimes.